


Remuage of the Mind

by malewifegirlboss



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Dark Will Graham, Empath Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter character study, Hannibal is Il monstro, Hannibal is a med student, Hannibal isn't as good at being the absoloute fucking worst yet, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Please don't think about the timeline too hard, So Much Subtext, Will is an Art Student, Will's dad is homophobic, Young Hannibal Lecter, Young Will Graham, he's kinda immature, meet cute kinda, more like timeline divergence than an AU, they're both gay in this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:56:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29886963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malewifegirlboss/pseuds/malewifegirlboss
Summary: It’s always been so easy for Will to see the emotion in people, his empathy putting the magnifying glass up to his unwilling eyes. It was impossible for him not to see past peoples masks, the faces people put on every day were too poorly crafted to fool even his subconscious ire. It was comforting to deconstruct art in place of people, every detail that Will could parse was put there on purpose, put there specifically to be analyzed. Art wanted to be seen and understood in a way that people often didn’t.- - - - - - -Will wins a art scholarship in Florence for the summer, at the same school a young Il Monstro. Under his influence, Will must decide if he wishes to be the painter or the subject.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	Remuage of the Mind

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ IF U CARE DEEPLY ABT OOC HANNIBAL:
> 
> I very rarely see people write young Hannibal while accounting for his lack of experience and education, so i wanted to try it myself. The Hannibal in this fic already has several murders and cannibalizations under his belt, but is working on his artistic flare. I tried to take into account his lack of psychiatric education at this point in his life without ignoring his natural talent of manipulation. He is also less emotionally stable at this point in his life, prone to more sudden bursts of emotion. 
> 
> And i tried my best with Will's empathy alright i just love writing dark Will.
> 
> ALSO the Hannibal timeline is a hellscape so i centered the timeline around the time-frame of the actual Monster of Florence's murders
> 
> i have five or so chapters planned out rn but depending on reception i might draft more! ily ty for reading

Will clings to normalcy as much as possible while abroad. He always starts the day with a face full of cold water and two cups of coffee. He tries to buy the same foods he did back in Louisiana and even tries to cook them the same way. He shouldn’t be so frustrated by how much better it tastes, despite being functionally the same. Maybe Florence just has better produce. He doesn’t know why he bothered tacking on that  _ maybe.  _

He’s less homesick than he’s afraid of becoming the opposite, if he falls in love with Italy, it will be more difficult to go back home when his scholarship expires. Will’s father didn’t really want him to go, he didn’t appreciate Will’s artistic inclinations, but a whole summer of no mouth other than his own to feed plus no son to remind him of the wife that left him was too good to pass up. 

The minuscule flat the university had provided him at least had a friendly ambiance, the reflection of sunlight off the countless terracotta colored roofs filling the rooms with warm light. He leans out of his tight balcony, more of a full-body window with an extended railing than a true balcony, wringing his hands on the wrought-iron railing as his second cup brews. 

It’s early morning, but clusters of people wind through the roads and alleys below. Will absently picked at the hem of his shirt, the line almost low enough to cover his underwear. He started to mentally page through his meager wardrobe, trying to remember which combinations of shitty dress shirts and cheap slacks he had already worn to class. His coffee calls him back inside, grabbing eggs and a bottle of hot sauce on his way to the machine. 

His eggs sizzle on their pan as Will nurses his coffee in silence, watching them solidify and curl up and away from the metal. Once they’re done and drowned in hot-sauce, Will shovels them down, trying to ignore how still the air around him seems to feel. 

He pulls a random shirt from his dresser and jumps into some brown slacks, wrestling with the belt that was just barely too large for his trim waist. He knows he’s running late but forces himself not to check the time, he doesn’t need to fuel the anxiety he already has. He fumbles with his key in the lock, barreling down the steep and narrow stairs, that felt more similar to sending himself down a bumpy chute. The stairs spit him out onto the uneven stones of his street, the tall buildings crowding up and around him. He set off at a brisk walk, focusing on not stepping on his shoelaces. 

The storefronts and architectural marvels of Florence flitted by in Will’s peripheral, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him, only watching for the flagstone he planned to put his foot next. He didn’t want to look at the people he was passing today, he didn’t need them in his head. He was already in his own a little too much this morning. 

He turns his thoughts to his assignments, picking through the pages of his sketchbooks in his mind's eye, mulling over which pages he wanted to continue. Back in the states, Will’s favorite thing to do was to replicate old masterworks, studying every miniscule brushstroke on the canvas and every crease of the marble. 

It’s always been so easy for Will to see the emotion in people, his empathy putting the magnifying glass up to his unwilling eyes. It was impossible for him not to see past peoples masks, the faces people put on every day were too poorly crafted to fool even his subconscious ire. It was comforting to deconstruct art in place of people, every detail that Will could parse was put there on purpose, put there specifically to be analyzed. Art wanted to be seen and understood in a way that people often didn’t. 

Maybe part of it was also the fact that the art’s hurts aren’t real. He can appreciate art of a dying man, see his fear and his pain as he clings onto whatever might be dear to him, but when he looks away the man is gone. He can look past the paint into the emotion of the picture and see the story that’s been meticulously crafted for his viewing, but the life of the arts subject does not haunt him, not like real people do. 

The steps of his building eventually appear under foot, his mind still locked in thought, he only hears the taps of the soles of his shoes as he ascends. He’s less than halfway up when he is suddenly grabbed. It’s not a go at his forearm or shoulder, but rather a relaxed hand that now tightly splayed across the curls on his downturned head. Will freezes, quickly snapping his head up, the hand leaves his hair at the movement but does not retract all the way back to its owner's side. 

“Apologies,” The man in front of will says in a thick accent with flat pleasantness that implied he didn’t actually think he was the one that should be apologizing. “But I wanted to keep my coffee in its cup.” 

Will flushes, realizing he must have almost walked right into this young man going the opposite way, only stopped by being pushed back by the forehead like a little kid trying to hit their older sibling during a stupid fight. 

“Oh! I um- I’m sorry about that.” He tried to smile personably, flicking his attention to the disposable cup in the man's other hand. Will blanks, scratching the back of his neck just to do something with his hands, very aware of the fact that their position on the stairs made the man loom over him by almost a foot. The man's hand returns to his own bubble, settling on the strap of his old leather shoulder bag. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Luckily enough, I was.” the man smiles lightly, laughing at Will behind his eyes, but not entirely unkindly. Will spent a few endless milliseconds looking at the man in front of him… they seemed to be the same age. His cheekbones were high and his skin was smooth and perfect like wax, his lips were thick and downturned yet didn’t hold any obvious displeasure. His hair had obviously been perfectly styled when he left wherever he came from, but now the strands just barely fall over his forehead, softening the manicured look. 

Will’s chuckle was slightly late. “Yeah, for both of us.”

They look at each other for one more fleeting moment before Will awkwardly bows his head in farewell, and steps around the man, careful not to bump into him. He hurries up the steps, keeping his gaze upward this time around. He gets a weird feeling as he goes, an itch of some sort in the back of his brain. He only realizes once he’s inside and the man is out of sight that it was the urge to look back. He wonders why. 

  
  


\------------

Hannibal Lecter hates making mistakes. It’s frustrating beyond reason when he doesn’t do things just right, and even more so when others' mistakes drag him down. He does his best to distance himself from everyone, but one can only hold the reins from so far away. Better to be in control and irritated than the opposite. 

He brings his hands up to smooth down the scarf tucked into his trim coat, despite the summer weather, the extra layer brought him comfort. He closes his eyes and inhales sharply through his nose, drawing a lungful of the fruitful evening air, half wishing it bit with cold like it did back home. 

Maybe he’d still be there if he’d made fewer mistakes. Or maybe if he’d made more. 

Hannibal shakes his head slightly, expelling the stray thought from his mind as he reaches his destination. 

He passes silently through the doors of the gallery, the juxtaposition of the night's darkness and the artificial light painted air inside with a golden hue. He wandered the halls with a false casualty, regarding the masterworks on the walls with respect and faint interest. He was here for one work in particular. 

Very few others roamed the gallery, often the ones with the most appreciation for the works within visited outside of prime tourist hours. His only company are other scholars staring endlessly into canvas’ with weathered hands clasped tightly behind their backs. He adjusts his hold on his small sketchbook, thumbing the pages as he goes. He began to absently twist the ring that sits on his little finger inside his pocket, as he drew closer to his charge, the pad of his finger tracing the Lecter crest engraved in its face. 

He turns the corner to step over the threshold of the room that held his Boticelli,  _ almost _ faltering when he sees someone already sitting on the bench directly in front of la Primavera. He is immediately consumed with two emotions. Annoyance that he would not be alone with the art, but more so curiosity that he was not the only one who had come to visit Botticelli's work at such an hour. Hannibal's stride does not flinch, continuing the even rhythm of his steps until he finds himself rounding the bench to sit swiftly on the person's left. 

Hannibal immediately recognizes his colleague in captivation, the boy from the steps a few days prior. He too has brought his sketchbook, and is pouring his frame into the pencil recreation of Primavera splayed across his lap. He only registers Hannibal's presence when the seat shifts beneath him. 

However, Hannibal forces himself not to meet his eyes when he feels the boy's gaze flick to the side at him, instead pulling his own book into his lap and cracking it open. He had fully intended to redraw the work from scratch tonight, but instead opened to another half-completed version of The Primavera, entirely for the benefit of his companion. He allowed the book to fall fully open on his thighs, ensuring that the similarity of their work does not go unnoticed. 

He lets his pencil glide across the paper, but his attention is zeroed in on the body next to him. He feels his person fall under scrutiny as the boy's gaze rakes his form before landing on the contents of his lap. When all he gets in reaction is an amused huff, he has to actively not furrow his brow. He could conceive amusement at the apparent coincidence, but something told him that he wasn’t reacting to what Hannibal thought he was. He maintained his mask of ignorance, hoping the lure was sweet enough.

It’s only a few seconds before his inaction is rewarded. 

“So…” the boy started quietly but entirely full of suppressed glibness. Hannibal pretends not to notice. “...did your coffee make it the rest of the way down the steps?” 

Hannibal permitted himself a glance to the side expecting to see his companion watching him, but his gaze had only risen from his own lap to study La Primavera, before returning to the pending recreation again. 

Irrational irritation flared for a brief moment in Hannibal's chest. Was that all the address he was to get? Though… Hannibal did despise small talk, and he had just disposed of it’s need through his bluntness. Maybe he shouldn’t be mad. 

But it  _ did  _ bug him that the boy had not looked back at him. He had set a lure hoping for a bite, and he’d gotten one, but this fish wasn’t pulling on the line. How annoying. 

“Indeed it did.” Hannibal mused, pretending that his attention had never left his own work. “Did you happen to walk into more people on your way up?” 

He chuffed and Hannibal heard the sound of his eraser racing over his paper. He glanced sideways again, more discreetly this time, to watch his large yet lithe hands sweep the erasers crumbles off his pages. 

He couldn’t help but think that he had beautiful piano fingers. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, still not looking up. 

“Hannibal.” he replies, training his eyes back on his scratchings.

“Will.” 

“What brings you to the feet of La Primavera, Will?” Hannibal asks lightly. 

Will looks up again, but not to Hannibal, pointing at the painting from afar with his pencil. 

“Her.” He says in an almost dreamy voice. Hannibal follows the line with which Will points, landing on the second rightmost figure in the painting.

“Chloris.” Hannibal replies immediately.

“Is it?” Will asks vacantly, bringing his pencil down to place the eraser gently between his lips. “I prefer to study them blind, read the story at home, then come back to study it again.” 

Hannibal pauses, curiosity thoroughly peaked. “Why blind?” 

Will scrunched his nose and grunted lowly, staring intently at his own drawing while searching for the proper words. 

“I want… to see the painting” he struggled to say. “before the picture.” 

Hannibal officially abandoned his gambit to act as uninterested as Will seemed to be, turning his head fully to watch Will think. 

“I try to… uh... decipher the meaning, without knowing anything about the piece.” He works out with a stutter. “This one’s a little tricky.” 

Hannibal watches as Will fumbles to push up his glasses. He can tell he was astronomically lucky to get more than a “sorry, my bad” in that brief moment they first met. He was clearly a reserved person. 

“How is it tricky?” Hannibal pursues in a barely casual tone.

Will clicks his tongue in frustration, glaring up at the Botticelli. “It’s an allegory.”

“You do not seem to lack nuance,” Hannibal tagged playfully. “surely that’s not your primary hang up.” 

The corners of Will's mouth turn upwards. “No, it isn’t. I just can’t seem to remember which myth has this particular cast.”

Hannibal preens internally at his correctness, with gleeful anticipation at the further correctness he intended to share.

“Because it isn’t from one.” Hannibal replies. “Botticelli enjoyed further fictionalizing the fictional. With its basis in truth, of course.” 

Will hums and nods, his visible nerves dissolving slightly at the distraction of new information to process. Understanding creeps into the wells of his eyes, and Hannibal has to keep himself from staring too intently.

“So each figure must represent a facet of the allegory parallel to their own myths” Will pondered aloud. “Venus is attended by the Hora of Spring, just like in The Birth of Venus, but this time she appears to be pregnant.” 

“As with Zephyrus as he heaves the winds of March.” Hannibal adds melodically. 

“Chastity gazes at Mercury as he clears the clouds of winter , a blindfolded Cupid with an arrow poised for her back.”

“Blind love hunts our chasteness before it rewards our pleasures and beauties.” 

Wills lips firm into a line, his train of thought so loud Hannibal can practically hear it.

“It’s the welcome of spring, but something else too…” 

Hannibal waits for Wills wheels to turn, he needs to reach his next conclusion unprompted.

He reaches it, snapping his fingers in epiphany, finally fully turning to Hannibal for the first time since he sat down. 

“It’s about marriage!” He exclaims, getting giddier when Hannibal affirms his assumption with a wide grin. 

“Ahhh it makes sense now.” Will sighed, relieved he had worked it out. “Venus is dressed like a married woman, opposed to the depiction of the nudeness of her birth. While a wife, Venus is still virginal, so her fertility is represented in the impregnation of the Hora.” 

“A seed of spring?” Hannibal prompts.

Will nods vigorously, elated by the conversation. “And the graces! When you married as they did back then, a woman would often lose her virginity to her husband before she finds either pleasure or beauty in the practice. Her chastity goes first.”

Hannibal felt heat simmer high on his cheekbones. Oh how he  _ adored _ allegories. 

“And what of Chloris?” 

Will did not look away when he chewed his thumb nail in thought, but his eyes did glaze over slightly. Hannibal took the opportunity to study Will’s soft yet angular features. Oh how similarly he looked to one of Botticelli's own angels. Delicate but imposing, small but not slender, full lips and a pronounced nose. 

How divine.

He’d have to ask Will if he’d studied that one yet, and if he hadn’t, if Hannibal could watch him do so. 

“Chloris,” Will murmured, turning his face from Hannibal to appraise the Primavera once more. “was a nymph renowned for her beauty.”

‘ _ Yes. _ ’ Hannibal's thoughts whispered.

“She was taken by the god Zephyrus to be his wife.” Will continued, Hannibal tracing the movement of his jaw with his eyes.

“Her face…” Will scrunched his brow. “She is surprised, even fearful, yet she looks upon Zephyrus with wonder.”

Hannibal stilled.

“Once they were together, he turned her into a goddess of springtime. Then they had their son.”

Hannibal smiles when Will turns to him for a response. “The west wind heralds spring which then bears fruit.” 

“You a poet too?” Will asks, arching a brow.

“That wasn’t my line, I'm afraid.” Hannibal smirks, letting his sketchbook fall shut in his lap. 

“Hmm a plagiarist then?” Will teased. “I’ll have to inform the dean.” 

Hannibal exhaled a laugh. “I don’t know if non-copyright poetry can get me kicked out of a medical program.”

Actual interest replaces jest on Will's face. “Doctor in training, huh? I would have said that seemed right the first time we met but you seem more... abstract…on further examination.” 

“Thank you.” Hannibal dips his head before tilting a look back at Will. “Do I dare guess you’re taking an art class?”

“Obviously, you do dare.” Will smirks, but his fingers are playing nervously with the cuff of his eggshell button up. 

“I won a summer scholarship back in the states,” He continued, some adjacent thoughts clearly nagging at him. “My family is too poor to send me to University, so this one free summer is the last piece of formal education I'll ever receive. I’m just glad it’s something I enjoy… someplace far from home.” 

Will’s sadness wormed its way through Hannibal's mind. How wasteful it would be to let such a brilliant fire spittle out because of something as inconsequential to intelligence as money. 

“Well then,” Hannibal's plan formed in his head as he spoke. “You must enjoy your time here.” 

Will cocked his head, clearly expecting Hannibal to continue. 

“While not quite as captivating as la Primavera, I would love your help with something personal.” Hannibal proposed, belatedly adding, “Art related of course.”

“I wouldn’t mind… care to elaborate?” Will questioned, finally shutting his own book and slipping the pencil into his pocket. 

Hannibal was far too satisfied to be under Will's full attention, he had to capitalize it again soon.

“I’ve been planning on visiting the Capponi Library to look into something. The last conversation I had with my uncle before arriving here leads me to suspect the French artist Balthus lies somewhere in my family tree.” 

Will scratched his chin, searching his memory. “I think I've heard of him a few times.”

“If you come with me, you can acquaint yourself with him.” Hannibal suggested as convincingly as he could. 

“All right, all right,” Will laughed, seeing right through him. “You’ll have to give me your number though, I need to check my calendar at home before agreeing to a time.” 

They take turns penciling each other's numbers into the corners of each other's replicated Primaveras. Will promises to call him in the morning to tell him when he’s free as they wind back through the gallery's halls towards the entrance.

It’s even later now, the air a few degrees colder. Hannibal can feel Will's envy at his coat and scarf opposed to his own thin polyester shirt as they step out onto the street. 

Before they part Hannibal wraps the scarf around Will’s neck. Out of concern for his comfort, but also as insurance. 

“You can give it back to me at the library.” He insists. Will did not seem the type to never return a borrowed item, but he did seem the type to get too shy to call, or maybe even forget to entirely. 

Will sputters his protests and his thanks at the same time. The darkness should have hid Wills flushing, but he managed to get a deep enough shade for it to not matter. 

Hannibal bids him goodbye, telling him to sleep well. Will responds in kind, before shuffling down the street towards the outskirts of the city center, where he presumably resides. 

Hannibal turns on his heel once Will is out of sight, heading back in the direction of his own home. Even though there is no one on the streets, Hannibal is grateful for the darkness. It hides the splitting grin that now splayed across his smooth young features.

He felt something tonight he hadn’t in a while.

  
  


_ Hungry. _

**Author's Note:**

> im really bad at consistent tense so pls gently point any mistakes if they're glaring tyyy :))
> 
> You can follow my tiktok (which is where i post the most hannibal stuff) @malewifegirlboss
> 
> This fic is dedicated to my tiktok mutuals @dykewillgraham for making a tiktok about it and @silencethewolves for putting it on my page <3 love u besties


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